


Drastic measures

by strawberriesandtophats



Series: Disaster Management has always been their forte [16]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Includes a recipe for porridge, Jakes Never Leaves AU, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Only One Bed, Police Grandfather Bright, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: It wasn’t Trewlove or Strange that hurried towards Jakes’ desk with worry in their eyes at the devilish hour of three in the afternoon, too far away from noon and too early for having an excuse to linger in the staff room over a good cup of tea.It was Mr. Bright.In which Morse faints at the office, Jakes eats the best porridge of his life and everyone has a backup plan for when the shit inevitably hits the fan.A continuation of 'In need of further evidence (let me take you home)'
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Series: Disaster Management has always been their forte [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/511345
Comments: 12
Kudos: 79





	Drastic measures

It wasn’t Trewlove or Strange that hurried towards Jakes’ desk with worry in their eyes at the devilish hour of three in the afternoon, too far away from noon and too early for having an excuse to linger in the staff room over a good cup of tea.

It was Mr. Bright.

“Sir?” Jakes asked, looking up from his stack of paperwork.

“Sergeant,” Bright said, the lines around his eyes deeper and the cigarette shaking just a fraction in his hand. “Come with me, now. There’s been…an unfortunate event has occurred.”

Jakes swallowed, standing up so fast that some of the papers flew off the desk when he bumped into it. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, so he kept his eyes on Bright’s shiny hat, not underneath his arm, meaning that perhaps there hadn’t been an accident.

“No one has died,” Bright said, his voice low and reassuring.

Jakes did not want to know what Bright had seen in his eyes.

“Oh,” Jakes said, taking a calming drag of his cigarette and trying to appear composed. “Right.”

“Morse’s fainted in my office,” Bright said in the same low voice. “I thought that you should know, so that he could wake up to a friendly face.”

Jakes found himself nodding and following Bright into his office, which Bright closed behind them.

Morse lay on a decorative sofa in the corner, usually there for frightened parents and spouses that had just identified the bodies of their loved ones. He was breathing regularly, his chest rising and falling as he slept.

Jakes moved one of the chairs in front of Bright’s desk to the sofa before he realized that he hadn’t asked for permission to do that, looking up to see that Bright was motioning for him to sit down.

“I’ll get you two a cup of tea,” Bright said instead of asking questions about Morse’s health and habits. “He’s been asleep for a few minutes by now. Dr. DeBryn’s taken a look at him and says that he should get some rest.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jakes said, nodding as the door closed behind Bright.

He did not take Morse’s hand in his, nor did he check his pulse. Instead Jakes put out his cigarette and changed the station on the radio to play opera. The volume was so low that it would not carry to the other rooms, but he could see Morse shifting to a more comfortable position on the sofa, his breathing deeper and his fingers moving as if trying to match the song.

Morse had barely eaten all week as the case dragged on, which had made Jakes resort to desperate measures, such as practically kidnapping Morse by insisting that they should both investigate a pharmacy that the murderer had frequented, which was handily close to a bakery. Jakes had purchased a Bath bun for Morse, handing over the brown paper bag before Morse had any chance to resist its aroma or reject the gift.

Jakes had just bumped his own crossed bun with Morse’s bun as if they were toasting, smiling at the grin on Morse’s face as he bit into his treat.

Some weeks it was enough to shove a steaming cup of tea into Morse’s hands, or leave a pear or two on his desk. And then there were the other weeks, where kidnapping a police officer was the only option in town.

“Just keep sleeping,” Jakes told Morse when his eyes opened blearily, perhaps sensing Jakes’ presence. “Mr. Bright is standing guard and Thursday’s wrapping up the case.”

“But-“ Morse protested, already trying to throw off his blanket.

“I cannot believe I’m going to finish most of your paperwork while you sleep,” Jakes told Morse, pretending to sound annoyed.

“You don’t have to do that,” Morse said, blinking and still half-asleep.

“Oh, I’m going to do it,” Jakes told him. “Just like I’m going to take you home in a few hours and _utterly_ exhaust you.”

Jakes had found out a few months ago that the best way to distract Detective Constable Endeavour Morse from engaging in self-destructive behavior was fuck him until he forgot his troubles, what month it was and on a good night, even his own name.

Jakes would lock the door to his bedsit, close the curtains and turn around to see a flustered Morse looking at him in the golden light of Jakes’ old lamp. Then Jakes would stalk toward him, hands cupping his jaw before crushing their mouths together.

They’d done this sort of thing enough to develop a routine of sorts. A careful one that still left them shaking and biting back gasps.

“Oh,” Morse said, lying back down on the pillow as a blush made its way up his neck. “That’s…good. I’d like that.”

“Hm,” Jakes said, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Close your eyes, then.”

Morse did, a tiny smile on his face.

“Is it a suicide thing?” Jakes had asked Thursday one evening when he’d made sure that Morse was asleep in his flat, having personally taken off all his clothes and exhausted him in very creative ways until Morse was happily dreaming underneath his duvet. “I get that he might forget to eat while hot on the trail of some serial killer, anyone would, but he doesn’t even eat breakfast. And sometimes he just stops eating at all.”

Thursday hummed, not raising an eyebrow at the fact that Jakes knew about Morse’s morning habits.

“If it is, it’s a slow way to go about things,” Thursday said. “But our Morse is a subtle person, sometimes.”

“I’ve had to make elaborate plans involving playing the radio at a strategic time so that he’ll linger in the kitchen for long enough to eat something,” Jakes kept going, downing the rest of his lukewarm coffee. If this was slow way of dying, even If it was not truly a plan, Jakes would do his damn best to make sure that the chance of it succeeding was as low as possible.

Now that Morse wasn’t drinking half a bottle of scotch every night and only having a beer for lunch, Morse lived on fruit and the occasional egg-and-cress sandwich if left to fend for himself. And tea. Far more tea than any human being should consume.

It was better than nothing.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Might not have gotten much food at home when he was young,” Thursday mused. “Not three meals a day, if he’s like this now. Would explain why he’s so caught up in proving he’s smart all the time if that was all he had to get out of a house that wouldn’t even feed him.”

“He’ll only have tea and toast when-“ Jakes began.

“The lights are going out in his eyes?” Thursday continued.

Jakes nodded, swallowing as he thought of the haunted look in Morse’s eyes as he just kept working endlessly until a murderer was caught or he’d collapse at home.

Some days he’d eat nothing at all.

And yet Morse had been chubbier when he’d come to Crowley station. In the beginning of their relationship, when they’d still be so aggressive during sex that they’d left bruises on each other’s hips and bite marks on shoulders, Jakes remembered his fingers digging into slight love handles and parting softer thighs.

These nights, bony hands would hold Jakes after he’d woken up in a cold sweat and with a half-strangled scream in his throat.

Morse didn’t flinch away from the scars on Jakes’ back, nor did he trace them. Instead Morse spread his hands and held him close. He’d listen to whatever disjointed memory Jakes’ mind had dug up overnight, no matter if Jakes’ voice was too wobbly and raw.

And then he’d cover them both with Jakes’ cheap duvet until they were ready to face the world.

On nights like that, with Morse snoring gently on the other pillow if he slept at all, Jakes had enough experience with sleeping with and dating women to know that it was, in so many ways, so damn easy in comparison to this thing he had going with Morse. They did not know about his past, as he never told anyone about it. And he wouldn’t have to worry about his gaze lingering too long or standing too close. And people would expect him to want to spend time with them and do all sorts of things together. Before and after a formal courtship.

Morse could be a difficult, uptight and snobby bastard who was far too perceptive for his own good. And Jakes knew that he could be prone to cruel jokes at times, gossip and vanity. But Morse had stormed into Blenheim Vale, ready to fight all of Jakes’ childhood monsters even if it would get him killed.

“The lights don’t stay out, though,” Jakes told Thursday, who had dropped his frankly disturbing habit of hinting that Morse should date his daughter after Jakes had a long and angry talk with him about how much that sort of thing was making everyone jittery and miserable.

It was not like the old man had any right to try to force anyone to suit his own dreams, not when things were good as they were.

Better than good.

“That’s because you work so hard to keep them on,” Thursday said. “I’ve seen you, dragging him into record stores and bookshops and whatnot.”

Jakes had also found himself pushing Morse into tiny Italian restaurants that served steaming pasta and fragrant soups. And reminiscing about how the boys at Blenheim Vale had made elaborate plans on stealing berries and rhubarb from the neighbors as he’d pour a can of baked beans into a pot on his stove to warm while the eggs fried in the pan.

“I’m not the only one who does it,” Jakes had said, looking over the empty office to where Trewlove sat and beyond, where the scent of Bright’s cigarettes still lingered. “And he does the same for me.”

The door opened to reveal Mr. Bright, who was holding a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a few of Dr. DeBryn’s homemade shortbread on a small plate.

“Made him go back to sleep, sir,” Jakes told Bright when he’d put down the tea and biscuits. “And I’ll take him back home on, too.”

“Very good,” Bright said, looking pleased as he adjusted his glasses.

“I’ll go finish the paperwork while he naps, sir,” Jakes said, standing up and putting his cigarette in his mouth for safekeeping.

Bright nodded and made an odd humming sound, letting him out of the office.

Jakes took the pile of paperwork off Morse’s desk and starting filling out the forms himself, reading over reports and making notes.

Just earlier this week Morse had stalked inside the nick with his head held high, snow in his curls and on his scarf and enough light in his eyes to brighten up the whole room.

Jakes followed behind, taking off his jacket and flashing Morse a grin when he shook the snow off his scarf.

The murderer had been caught in record time; his potential victims safe from harm. For tonight, at least, the world was a safer place. It had been an open-and-shut case, with enough nobs making obscure literary references and talking in odd code for Morse to feel in his element. The murderer had been a man that had visited Blenheim Vale once or twice, the sort that liked to beat children black and blue over a weekend and then return to his regular life afterwards.

Jakes had looked at the stab wounds on his torso and the vaguely familiar face, remembering the taste of bile in his throat as blood had dripped down his back.

Some part of him that was still a terrified, powerless child had whispered:

_Good._

_One less monster in the world._

Jakes had not ignored it, using that vicious pleasure to fuel him to look for his other victims and those who knew of them. And then he’d watched as Thursday brought out the handcuffs.

The murderer had looked at Jakes’ face when the handcuffs closed around his wrists, and Jakes did not want to know what he’d seen in his eyes.

Thursday had not said a thing about Jakes having stolen his Constable all week long, his eyes drifting to Morse’s desk, where Jakes had left the newspaper open to the crossword page and a half-empty packet of biscuits. He hadn’t said anything either when they’d left after finishing the paperwork, Jakes handing Morse his scarf before he’d start making comments about staying late.

Jakes had complimented Morse and Trewlove on a job well done when they’d found heaps of evidence while Jakes had been on the phone with the Yard, happy about how their faces lit up. And he’d patted Strange on the shoulder when he’d brought some chips to share to their table at the pub that night.

And then he’d taken Morse home, where Morse had shoved his hand down Jakes’ trousers as soon as the door was locked. He’d tugged at Jakes’ dress shirt until it became free of his trousers, shoving his suspenders off his shoulders and outright moaned when Jakes had licked his neck and cupped his ass in response.

Their clothes had ended up in heaps on the floor and they’d ended up in a tangle of limbs on the bed, sweaty and out of breath. Jakes did not think of this as taking advantage of Morse’s good mood, but as a way to add to his own and Morse’s store of good memories, for when the nights got long and cold and their personal monsters more ferocious.

And when he woke up to a buttery porridge the next morning and decent music on the radio for once, Jakes had kissed Morse until the kettle boiled and he’d utterly ruined Morse’s for-once carefully combed hair.

Then there had been an extra pack of cigarettes in his jacket that he knew he hadn’t bought, and two new pairs of red socks in his drawer at home. Even a few new records on the side-table, ones that were not opera and therefore things he’d had to ask Trewlove and Strange about.

Jakes had leaned back in his chair as Morse hummed uncertainly alongside the song on the radio, the sun shining through the faded kitchen curtains. And at that moment, Jakes did not feel like damaged goods at all.

Morse didn’t wake up until early in the evening, a pillow mark on his cheek and his eyes bleary as he practically inhaled his coffee and stared at his neat desk.

“I wonder where all the paperwork has gone?” Jakes asked, blowing out smoke. “Who has been so wonderful to finish it?”

The smile on Morse’s face was a bright thing in the dreary office. Trewlove and Strange lingered in the hallway with two matching cups of tea and tiny smiles.

“No idea,” Morse joked. “A mystery for the ages, that.”

“You’ll solve it, Constable,” Jakes said, putting on his jacket and definitely not thinking of how Morse had poured leftover cream over his porridge. “Now let’s get home before Thursday finds something more for us to do.”

Morse nodded, looking down at a desk that was completely devoid of any paperwork. Jakes had already filed everything and even used the darn typewriter. The strange look on Morse’s face was the sort that you might find on a substitute English teacher on they day where they finally had no homework to grade.

In that moment Jakes could see a road that lead to Morse being left alone with only a bottle of scotch for company in his tiny flat, surrounded by dark cloud of depression and too many records.

Jakes took his shoulders and steered him out the door, careful to take the way home with the most streetlights so that they’d walk in their warm glow. He kept his arm around his shoulders all the way home, telling Morse about old cases he’d solved with Thursday.

Morse did not move away from his touch, but leaned into it with a satisfied hum.

If they were at a crossroads that led them to the future, Jakes was going to made damn sure that they’d head towards a better one together.

**Author's Note:**

> The recipe for the porridge is as follows:
> 
> 2-3 tablespoons melted butter  
> 1 or 1 1/2 tablespoon steel-cut oats (are these leftovers? Probability says yes)  
> 3/4 cup rolled oats (no instant oats)  
> 1/2 tsp of coarse salt  
> 2-3 cups of water
> 
> Additional:
> 
> Cream/Milk of choice  
> Honey  
> Almonds/various nuts/ raisins/brown sugar  
> All kinds of berries  
> Sliced-up bananas
> 
> Put butter in a saucepan, add the tablespoon of steel-cut oats and then the rolled oats, stirring until it has all absorbed the butter and it is browning nicely. Add the salt, still stirring. Then add the water, bring to a boil and stir lots. Let it cook on low/medium for about ten minutes, remembering to stir at least some and not letting the whole thing burn down your house.
> 
> Put in a bowl, pour cream over the whole thing. Add toppings of choice.
> 
> Eat.
> 
> Based on Mr. Gaiman's recipe for a perfect porridge, I just add a lot more toppings and some more steel-cut oats.


End file.
